Home

       Home. A term used to describe a place that one dwells in. The place of comfort, the place of familiarity. It can be a country, a building, a city, or any location with which one is familiar.
When I see the word home, I think of a drawing which contains a triangle on the top portion of a square, and other smaller geometric shapes inside the square. The picture usually contains a yellow triangle a few inches away from the triangle and square image. Every time I see the word, that is the image that pops into my head.
When I hear the word home or a reference to such place using different terms in various tongues(kay, casa, lakay, dwelling), I get different visuals. The visuals vary depending on the language and term used as well as who is using it. It also varies depending on context.
      When I say home, I speak of a dwelling place. The place which I currently inhabit. When I think of home, however, my mind drifts off to a different time and place which only now exists in there. I think back to a younger me, a part of myself that now exists in memories. I think of dim lighting and one room apartments that share one bathroom. I think of a time when I was free to roam the alley on my own because everyone knew each other. I think of buildings made of plywood and aluminum all built close together with no clear street in between. I heard that the buildings are all demolished now due to the late Hurricane Irma. I have not been there since I left 15 years ago, so I probably would not have recognized it much anyway.
        When I think of home, I think of a pink house located in a suburban neighborhood. I was not allowed to play outside, which confused me because I knew where I lived before, playing outside was never an issue. I think of the big window in the living room and the awe I felt when experiencing the vast indoor space. I think of the family members whom I only knew by name before. I think of various relatives who would come and stay for days, weeks, months, years, and then disappear to other far away towns. I think of Thanksgiving meals and parties. I think of church services that took place in the pink building. Services where people came, gathered, sang, and prayed. I think of long trips to other church services where the same people gathered, sang, and prayed in a much larger rented space and a pulpit for the preacher. I think of meeting my aunt for the first time, not knowing that she would be a central figure of my life growing up.
      When I think of home, I think of the various streets I roam seeking solitude and freedom from the confines of walled space. I think of long bus rides to anywhere. I think of every person who has requested my free services. I think of phone calls and long conversations that never seem to end. Even when they do. I think of nights leaning against trees and experiencing the comfort of the trunk against my back. I think of nights sitting on the back of a black sedan, leaning my back against the glass, listening to the wind, watching the moon and the stars.
        When I think of home, I think of the man I married. I think of the unconventional nature of our relationship and the tenacity to make it work anyway. I think of long trips and daily adventures. I think of pain and struggle and the comfort of knowing that there is someone I can call. I think of the mystery and thrill that comes from loving and being with someone who lives miles apart. I think of apartment searches and hoping maybe this is the one. I think of anticipation and faith, fuels that spark the fire of hope. I think of the comfort that fills me each time I hear the words:"It'll all work out".
      See, home is many things. It is everything. It is where I go when the experience of living overwhelms me. It is the comfort I gain from knowing that my issues are far smaller than the universe. It is not one place, but many. As it is often said, and as I often hear: home is where the heart is.